


bits and bobs

by dizmo, sabinelagrande



Series: two flints [14]
Category: Taskmaster (UK TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Character Study, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22918156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizmo/pseuds/dizmo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: London is a big place.(Or: a ficlet collection for an entirely too planned AU)
Relationships: Greg Davies/Alex Horne, Nish Kumar & Mark Watson, Rob Beckett/Sara Pascoe
Series: two flints [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639948
Comments: 24
Kudos: 40





	1. Index

These are ficlets, by both Sabine and Dizmo, taken from hither and thither in the timeline of [two flints](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639948). Where the timeline is important, it will be noted in the chapter, but they're mostly side bits and character pieces. Since there are so many characters and we won't be tagging all of them, this chapter serves as your guide for the collection. The current chapters are:

1\. Index  
2\. The Good Death (Nish Kumar & Mark Watson)  
3\. The Smiling Assassin (Paul Sinha)  
4\. Beautiful Untrue Things (Rob Beckett/Sara Pascoe)  
5\. Sunshine (Lolly Adefope)  
6\. Correspondence (Al Murray)  
7\. Travelling Show (Hugh Dennis, Mel Giedroyc, Jo Brand, David Baddiel, Sian Gibson, Joe Thomas, Hugo Boss/Joe Lycett, Noel Fielding, Doc Brown)  
8\. Lines of Defense (Alex Horne, Tim Key, Ed Gamble)  
9\. Pointers (Alex Horne, Alice Levine, Sally Phillips, Greg Davies)

Stay tuned for more!


	2. The Good Death

"How do you do this job?" Mark asks him, not even two weeks in.

"Hmm?" Nish says distractedly. They're passing a tailor's shop, and he's focused on the suit on display in the window; Mark isn't surprised, because Nish just loves a good suit.

"The courier thing," Mark says. "How do you do it?"

"Ah," Nish says. "Well, for a start, I wasn't good at anything else."

"No point in pretending I'm good at anything either," Mark says.

"I dunno," Nish says. "Just fell into it." Mark gives him a look. "I really did," Nish protests. "This wasn't what I wanted to do with my life."

"But you do it anyway," Mark says. "And you have to know sometimes the people you ferry don't come back."

"I do know that," Nish says. "But it's-" He stops, looking contemplative. "Did you ever feel like you had a calling?"

"No," Mark says.

"Sometimes I'm the last friendly face these people ever see," Nish says. "Sometimes after I shut the door, they get their throats slit. I know that. I also know that somebody would fill my spot if I wasn't there."

Mark doesn't know what to say to that. Nish says it in such an even tone, like it's something he already understands, something that's set in stone. Mark didn't exactly think this line of reasoning was going to end with the scales falling from Nish's eyes, but he didn't realize that they'd never been there at all.

"And that doesn't bother you?" Mark says.

"It bothers me that somebody else would make people hurt more," Nish says. "People don't deserve to be mocked or taunted, especially on the last day of their lives. It's my responsibility to give people one last nice walk. I hope someone else would do the same thing for me."

"Jesus," Mark says, after a long pause.

"Cheer up," Nish says brightly. "Most of the time I'm not actually delivering people to their death. Sometimes I even broker peace."

"That seems like you," Mark says, and he's not sure whether Nish catches his meaning. Nish's eyes have stolen back up to the shop window. "You don't need that suit."

"You're underestimating how good I'd look in that suit," Nish says, and Mark sighs.


	3. The Smiling Assassin

No two days at the hospital are exactly alike.

Dr. Sinha knew this even before he started, though some of his colleagues bemoan the fact that their work is variable and often chaotic. Some of them act like they would really rather be doing anything else but being doctors, but they're far in the minority.

Dr. Sinha isn't really the type to bemoan anything. He keeps his voice even. He keeps his patients cared for. He keeps his head down. Then he leaves the hospital and walks home.

No two nights in London are exactly alike.

The dead drop is in a hedgerow not far from Paul's residence, and he's gotten very good at pulling out what's in it in one quick motion, when there is something in it. This time it's a thick packet, but like every other time, it goes straight into his jacket without a glance.

When he gets home, he opens the envelope. The thickness came from a sheaf of bank notes, but there is a letter attached. The person who wrote the letter clearly understands the terms of the arrangement, and Paul sees no reason not to fulfill the contract. He will do it quickly and easily, with no qualms and no reservation. Being squeamish is no way for a doctor to live, no matter if he's saving lives or ending them.

And the Smiling Assassin, the Sinnerman, pulls on his coat and steps into the night. 


	4. Beautiful Untrue Things

"Think I managed to find you a husband," says Rob as he walks in the door of the shared flat.

Sara laughs and stands. "Lovely! Who's the lucky groom?"

"Shopkeeper. Wanting to expand his business soon, and sees how your inheritance will help with that."

Sara bats her eyelashes, painting a mournful look on her face. "Oh, our dear departed grandfather. Whatever will we do without him?"

Rob paints an uncannily similar look of mourning on his own. "Have a lot less money, probably."

"And less coming in. So when do we meet, then?"

"Day after tomorrow. Better lay it on thick. I think I've actually talked him into five pounds."

"Oh! Well, I'd better be at my _most demure_ , then."

"Course you will," Rob says, sitting on their threadbare sofa. "Show him you're quite the catch. Before, you know, he gives me the cash and then never sees us again."

"Oh, you _know_ I'm quite the catch."

Rob just laughs. "Know the reason I'm glad we're not _actually_ related?"

At Sara's immediate raised eyebrow, he laughs again. "No, not _that_... Well, yes that, but not what I'm talking about."

"All right then," she says, walking over to sit nestled against him. "Why's it you're glad we're not _actually_ related?"

"Well, think about it. If you were actually my sister, I could only marry you off _once_. And I don't think another con would be _nearly_ as fun."

"True. But an _actual_ inheritance would be pretty fun too."

Rob gives her a kiss. "Yeah. But we get by."

Sara smiles and closes her eyes, snuggling into him. "Yeah. We get by."


	5. Sunshine

Lolly leaves a trail wherever she goes. She puts smiles on people's faces. People don't forget about Lolly; she's such a nice girl, and she's always around to lend a hand. She's in the square almost every day, seeing and being seen, and so many people there would genuinely call her a friend.

There's a group of men standing up against one of the walls, and Lolly walks towards them, as if she's going to pass them by.

"There she is," one of the men says, Stephen, with a kind smile. "How've you been?"

"Oh, you know," Lolly says. "I stay busy."

Another one of them, she doesn't recognize. He gives her a critical once-over. "Who's this?"

"What do you mean, who's this?" Stephen says. "This is Sunshine."

"Uh huh," the man says.

"You don't know Sunshine?" another of the men says, and the one she doesn't know looks around and realizes he's outnumbered, by a lot.

"Is she alright?" he asks.

Stephen puts an arm around her shoulders. "I'd trust Sunshine with anything. We all would."

"Fine," he says, though he doesn't look happy about it.

Some time later, Lolly leaves the main thoroughfare and slips into an alleyway, following a network of them before stopping in front of a door and knocking. A peep hole swings to the side, then the door opens to let her in.

The Chairwoman's lair is dim by design, the surroundings meant for comfort. Bosh has fallen asleep on the couch in the corner, which isn't new. Rose is the one who opened the door, and she closes it behind Lolly and walks back to the table; she's writing a letter of some kind, and she gets back to it. The Chairwoman herself is sitting on the chaise she, ironically, prefers to rest on, hookah pipe in one hand and novel in the other.

Liza blows out a stream of smoke before she speaks. "What've you got for us?"

Lolly smirks. "Everything."


	6. Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place near the end of [to pay for what we do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825837).

Lord Alistair Murray enters his study with a smile, secreting away the package he had just received. His occasional errand boy had obviously been overwhelmed by the offer that he had received in turn. The man's capable enough, and can clearly attend to more than his current employer will allow him, from the sordid picture that's been painted to him. Alistair doubts it will be more than a day or two before the Taskmaster's toy will come gratefully running back to him.

You see, that's the thing about having money. As much as fashionable society refuses to admit it aloud, it _works_. It works _especially_ well when dealing with people _outside_ of fashionable society. They don't have the luxury of getting by on reputation alone. Or on reputation at all, for that matter. It's been months and he still isn't entirely sure "the assistant" even _has_ a name.

It is refreshingly simple. He likes it.

Unfortunately, though, he does also have to truck around in the world of reputation, so he sits at his desk and starts in on his correspondence. It's much less interesting, but not unnecessary. So he spends a matter of a few hours reading some letters and drafting replies. He promises a few votes in the Lords, but not so many that he'll actually have to attend more regularly.

And then once that's done, having spent the better part of a day with work, he decides his evening should be spent in leisure, so prepares himself to go to his club and steps out.

Alistair is barely out of his home for five minutes when he finds his steps being matched as an unfamiliar man walks alongside him. He glances over at the new arrival, a couple inches shorter than he is, wearing a dark suit with a claret waistcoat. He has light brown hair and dark blue eyes and a day's stubble on his chin. Not exactly someone he'd normally see in the neighborhood. The man speaks up. "Pardon. Have a letter for you."

Continuing his walk, Alistair replies, "You can leave it with my footman. I'm on the way out."

The man smiles, but it's not an entirely pleasant one. "Sorry, but I was told to hand-deliver it personally. Have to make sure it gets to you, right?" And he holds up a crisp white envelope with a bold red seal.

Alistair stops short, a slight chill running up his spine as he takes the letter. "Thank you," he replies almost automatically.

The man's sharklike smile only grows. "Of course. Pleasure to meet you." And with that, he turns and goes, leaving Alistair with the missive in his hand.

He looks at the seal, unsurprised at the simple design he sees, before breaking the seal and opening the letter to read.

> Murray,
> 
> My assistant has declined your offer and will be doing no further errands for you.
> 
> Should you attempt to contact him again, you will instead find yourself meeting with others in my employ you will not find so easy to work with.
> 
> Money does not buy everything.
> 
> Regards,  
>  The Taskmaster  
> 

At least it's a letter and not a knife in the ribs, Alistair muses, tucking it away. Still, he had not seen anything of the sort coming. If the crime boss had forced information of Alistair's offer out of his minion, the response probably would have taken longer to get back. Which meant it had very likely been offered freely.

Some men, it seems, do not want to escape their sad lot in life. Unfortunate, but he can certainly find someone else instead.

Message received.


	7. Travelling Show

The night is mild, by London standards. It's late enough that people are off the streets, mostly; the ones who are hanging around mostly look like they have ill intentions. That's why Hugh is seeing Mel home, even though Sally's really isn't in a horrible neighborhood, even though people know Mel around here. Mel's the kind who invites a smile or a warm glance, but everybody feels just a little better if she has Hugh along with her.

"You have to come by tomorrow, my love," Mel is saying, her arm through Hugh's. "We got a whole crate of lemons, isn't that smashing? I don't know what we're going to do with them yet, but I can tell you it'll be a hit."

"Lemon tarts, I expect," Hugh says amiably.

"Lemon tarts are only the tip of the iceberg," Mel says. "There are so many more-" She stops, even though they're not far from the bakery. "What is that?"

"Hmm?" Hugh says.

"All the lights are on," Mel says, and she starts walking a bit faster, pulling Hugh with her. "I hope something isn't wrong."

Hugh doesn't say anything, just lets himself be hurried. It is odd to see the bakery lit up this time of night; they keep normal bakery-type hours, which is why Mel comes over to the House of an evening, when there's more leftover pastries than they can deal with. Sian and Sally go back to the beginning, and Mel mostly just likes to spread happiness, which sometimes takes the form of handpies.

Mel lets him go so that she can open the front door, which is unlocked; inside, there are voices, and when Hugh steps through the door, he can smell the bitter scent of the strong coffee Sian makes. Sian is there, pouring some of said coffee into cups, but she's not the only one.

"There she is," Sian says with a smile.

"What is all this?" Mel says.

"We brought the travelling show to you," the woman seated at the table says; she's a grande dame type, only something about her broadcasts immediately that she doesn't give a fuck about most anything. "If I don't get them out of the house, they'll run around in circles and gnaw on the wallpaper."

"Come, sit," Sian says, setting coffee down in front of two empty chairs. Hugh takes a seat; he's not one to turn down Sian's coffee.

"This is Noel," Mel says, putting her hands on the shoulders of a long-haired man who's wearing what looks like a mockery of a military uniform and rather more kohl than most men could get away with. "And this is David, and this is Jo, Joe, and Joe." She indicates several other people: an older man who looks faintly confused, the woman who spoke earlier, and two men dressed in quite a dapper style, though one of them looks absolutely stoned out of his mind. "And this is-" She's indicating a handsome, brown-skinned man with close-cropped hair. "Oh, actually, I don't know you, my love."

"That's Doc," Noel says, taking Mel's hands and pulling her down, so she's hugging him around the neck. "We've adopted him."

"Only it's not Joe anymore," the more sober of the two Joes says. "I'll tell you about the whole matter shortly, but it's Hugo now."

"Of course," Mel tells Hugo.

"Sit, sit," Noel says, letting her go, and Mel lets David pull her chair out for her. She sits down, arranging her skirts comfortably. Hugh doesn't think he's seen her like this before. She looks happy, but she always looks happy; she looks somehow nervous, almost like she's flustered.

"You never come by Jo's anymore," David says.

"Oh, it's just that I'm always so busy," Mel says. "Sian keeps me occupied."

"There is a lot to do around here," Sian says, and Hugh can tell she's covering for Mel.

"Don't think you can scare us off with something like that," Jo says, looking unimpressed; in fairness, she's looked unimpressed pretty much the whole time.

"How are you getting on with this crowd, dear?" Mel asks Doc.

Doc looks around at the lot of them. "Hasn't been a dull moment."

"That sounds about right," Mel says.

"Come on, Mel," Noel says, and his face is kind. "It's okay."

Mel sighs. "Alright," she says. "I have missed all of you."

"That's a bit more like it," Hugo says. "Don't think you can run from us forever." He waves a hand at the bakery. "This is all well and good, but we know you better than that."

"So you used to-" Hugh says, nodding at the pack of them, though he doesn't know what he's trying to indicate.

"I'm retired," Mel says. "Perfectly happy about it, don't worry, but it did leave me with all these ones to deal with."

"You love us," Noel says.

Mel smiles softly. "I really do."

"Love is a vanishing construct that will leave in its wake a great emptiness," Joe says.

"We're trying to come up with a name for what Joe is doing," Hugo says. "If we give it a name, he's a philosopher."

"If you don't, he needs a doctor," Jo says.

"I'm thinking something with 'nihil'?" Hugo says consideringly.

"That's already a thing," David says.

"Hmm," Hugo says. "Anyway, we'll workshop it."

"You said you had a story to tell me," Mel says.

"Oh yes," Hugo says. "It's a tale of great pettiness and righteous anger."

"Then I'm excited to hear it, my love," Mel says.

"Well," Hugo says, drawing himself up. "There's a tailor, you see, one of these high street types."

Jo rolls her eyes as he continues to speak, just one indication that all of them have heard the story before, but the great passion with which Hugo tells it is admittedly extremely entertaining. Hugh is starting to see how someone like Mel could get wrapped up with people like these, with her endless enthusiasm and her sly way with words.

Hugh leans over, speaking softly to Mel. "I like your friends."

Mel gives him a smile, one of the ones she has where it looks like the sun's coming up. "I like them too," she says, laying a hand on his arm.

Hugo's righteous rage continues on, but Hugh has a hard time not getting sucked in.


	8. Lines of Defense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set sometime before [worse things waiting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22951378). Contains mentions of Ed Gamble/Rose Matafeo, but not enough for a tag.

Tim and Alex come in through the side door. They could have come in through the front door, except it's barred from the inside, just in case. The point is that it wouldn't have mattered. It doesn't matter if Alex is seen coming into this building. He's the one who pays the rent, and if anyone cared to notice, Tim and Alex walking in wouldn't seem out of place at all.

Greg doesn't know about this place. Alex is keeping it for himself; it's also one of the places he has that he could remove Greg to if he needed Greg to be somewhere that not even Greg knew the address of. There are a few reasons why Alex might need that to be something that happens, none of them good, but Alex plans. That's what he does. That's his responsibility, and that's what's kept him alive.

All Greg has to do is have him followed to find out about this place. He and Tim even left together, and while they made a wide arc, Alex didn't even double back or stick to alleyways. Greg doesn't think about these things. Greg is not half as paranoid as Alex would really prefer for him to be. Greg trusts Alex more than anything; Greg doesn't think about these things because he has Alex to think about them for him.

Alex made it this way, but sometimes he worries. Sometimes he thinks he's done such a good job that he's left Greg defenseless. He doesn't like that feeling.

But Tim and Alex make their way in. It's very sparsely furnished and not in a typical way; the front room has a table with three chairs, but all the rooms have multiple mattresses and not much else. The point is not to be comfortable. The point is, if it comes to it, to move multiple people in very quickly.

One of the mattresses is on a proper bed that happens to have restraints on it. It's not a sex thing, meant for more sinister purposes. It could be a sex thing in a pinch. Alex keeps his options open.

It also doesn't matter that Alex and Tim left together. Alex does know that Greg keeps track of who does and doesn't know about their arrangement, as does Alex. It's just by the nature of when and how it started that some people know that Greg isn't what he says he is: Rhod, Roisin, Asim, Sally. Greg also knows that Alex brought Tim into this arrangement. He's known that Tim's been in on it from the start. Even that first day, when Nish- who also has at least some inkling but keeps his mouth shut for a living- brought Greg to see him, Tim was there, watching the door.

This puts Alex and Tim together in a certain way, one that Greg obviously knows. Alex and Tim aren't anything like Alex and Greg, but they have each other's backs. Greg is Alex's priority, but he's loyal to Tim. Alex assumes this is how Greg sees it, because it's the only logical way to look at it, but the point is that Alex doesn't hide that he and Tim are associates.

"Why is this place always so dusty?" Tim says, swiping at his chair with his handkerchief before sitting down.

"If you're offering to come by and clean it, I would love to accept," Alex says, because it is in fact uncomfortably dusty.

"I'm opening a window," Tim says.

Alex really doesn't want anyone passing by to hear their conversation, but the dust is a lot. "Yeah, go on, then," Alex says. "We'll just shut it before we talk."

"I can live with that," Tim says. The window sticks, because of course it does, but Tim manages to heft it open. "Can you fan dust out?"

"I think it's theoretically possible," Alex says. "You'll be doing it alone. I don't have anything to fan with."

"Sod it," Tim says, leaving the window and sitting back down. "We'll just have to let nature take its course."

There's a noise from the back of the building, and Alex puts a hand on his knife. Tim unnecessarily puts a finger to his lips, and neither of them move a single muscle. Alex knows what it's supposed to be. If it's not, they're going to have a problem.

The noise resolves into Ed, walking in from the back, and Alex moves his hand. "How are the two of you not choking to death?" Ed asks in a strangled voice, trying to wave dust away from his face.

"It is really not that bad," Alex says, feeling relieved and, as he sometimes does when he sees Ed, a little guilty.

The problem with Greg is that he doesn't think the right way. Greg is not heartless, even though he trades on being ruthlessly cruel; Greg has a big heart. When Alex mentioned Ed to him as someone useful for the gang- street smart, a scrapper, well-connected to a certain Irishman that it would be very good to know- Greg hadn't even thought twice. If Alex says it, it must be right; Alex is always as good as his word.

Alex knows Greg is as good as his word, and that's because he scrutinizes Greg to the tips of his very fingers. That is not the same thing.

So Greg didn't check Ed out before letting him in, and he never learned that Alex and Ed have known each other for years. He's never found out that Ed is Alex's failsafe. Everything that Alex knows, Tim knows, but Ed knows it too. If Greg decides he's through with Alex, he might bring Tim down with him; Greg doesn't know that if he does that, Ed will light him up.

Alex, sometimes, in a deep, uncomfortable part of him, hates that he thinks like this. It's not precisely because he has to do it to survive, even though he does, but because it is a deeply paranoid and tiring way to live. Sometimes he wishes he could see a handshake without a knife in it. Sometimes he wishes he could shut it off and be what he is informed is normal.

Ed drops into the third chair at the table. "Afternoon, boys," he says. "What's new in the world of crime?"

"We only left it half an hour ago," Tim says.

"You just don't like it when I sound suave," Ed says.

"When I hear you sound suave, I'll let you know how I feel about it," Tim says.

"Look at that," Ed says, while Alex is momentarily distracted, and Ed pushes up Alex's shirt cuff with his little finger. "That's an impressive one."

There is in fact a thick red band around Alex's wrist. Greg doesn't usually use rope on him, not liking the unpredictability of it, the way it slips and twists if it isn't tied properly. This time, he'd particularly wanted Alex to hurt, his skin to redden and chafe. He hadn't even done a great job with tying it, competent but nothing else, and Alex could feel the rope biting into his skin every time Greg thrust inside him.

"Didn't Rose give you a black eye last time?" Tim says, which is a good point.

"Yeah, but it was just foreplay," Ed says with a smirk. "Keeps it interesting."

"Am I the only person who likes normal sex?" Tim asks.

"I don't know if that was rhetorical or not," Ed says. "Also, that implies that you have sex."

Alex tugs his sleeve down. It wasn't normal, _Alex_ isn't normal, but the last time he felt like he could think, like he could trust anything, Greg was on top of him, his teeth in Alex's shoulder, ropes ruining his wrists.

"No matter what you like, go close the window," Alex says.

Tim groans. "Oh, please, do what you like but don't make me shut the window."

"These are the sacrifices we make," Alex says. "Shut the window."

Tim does it, though he grumbles, and the work can at last begin.


	9. Pointers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place about a month or so after [every sinner has a future](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22705963). Very brief mentions of Greg/Alice and Greg/Sally.

Things are settling in, regarding the Taskmaster. Alex has seeded the idea far and wide, made sure Greg gets talked up. For his part, Greg has found their base of operations; Alex was not actually expecting for Greg to choose the back room of a brothel, but the place looks nice and Sally gives them free drinks. Perhaps they can spin it to their advantage.

It does mean there are a number of ladies of the evening scattered about the place. Alex doesn't quite know what to do with that. He's not exactly a blushing rose, and it's not like he's never interacted with that kind of woman before, but having them just sort of around is really confusing to him, for reasons he can't quite articulate.

He's getting a drink for Greg, something that requires going up front, when one of the girls sidles up next to him. "Hello, button," she says; she's the redheaded one that Alex has seen around. She's very beautiful, as these things go, and she's wearing less than Alex is truly comfortable with. "You're Alex, right?"

"Right," he says.

"I'm Alice," she says. "How are you finding it here?"

"Um," Alex says. "It's quite nice, actually. Smells faintly of violets."

"Sally likes that kind of thing," Alice says. She leans closer, which brings her breasts in close range; Alex is not sure what he should be preparing for here. He's not really interested in sleeping with her, but he's not convinced he'd know how to turn her down gracefully. 

"Listen," she says, in a conspiratory voice. "You really fancy Greg, don't you?"

"Uh," Alex says, because that was very much not where he thought that was going. "Um. Well. The Taskmaster is, um, very tall, and he smells nice, though not like violets-"

"That's what I thought," Alice says. "We're going to get you your man."

"Wait, what?" Alex says, but she's already pulling him away.

Minutes later, he's standing in the madam's office, and Alice, along with said madam, is looking Alex over with a critical eye. The two of them have been circling him, taking him in, and Alex feels a little like a moth on a pin.

"We need to talk about the look first," Sally says, walking behind him.

"Makeup isn't going to suit you," Alice says, which Alex is thankful for. "But your tailoring could be sharper."

"The shape of the trouser is all wrong," Sally says, examining Alex's arse. "We need to accentuate."

Alice joins her, and the two of them ponder his backside for longer than is necessary. "What if we took it in here and here?" Alice says, grabbing the back of Alex's trousers and making him jump. "It's going to take forever to get something new."

"You're not wearing bespoke," Sally says disapprovingly, walking around to look at Alex. "You should be wearing bespoke. All Greg's suits are bespoke."

"Because he's nine feet tall," Alice says with a grin.

"Not quite nine, but nearly seven," Sally says. She looks at Alex. "If you don't match him, it's going to be noticeable. If he looks sharp and you're in rags, it's going to look like he has low standards."

Alex hadn't even really thought of it that way; he'd thought that dressing down would make him look shabby, lessened. What if it does make it look like the Taskmaster isn't demanding enough? It's a thing to consider.

"What can we do besides the clothes?" Alice says, contemplating Alex in a way that makes him feel both bewildered and exposed.

"Greg's tastes do vary widely," Sally says. She looks at Alex keenly. "But what might he like out of you?"

"Competence, definitely," Alice says. "Know what he wants before he does. He loves that." Alex can do that one; it's kind of part and parcel to the whole thing, being essentially the Taskmaster's servant.

"He likes playful," Sally says. "Poke at him a little bit."

"Get ready to get poked," Alice says, grinning.

"You, um-" Alex says. He lets it sit for a suggestive period of time. "Not to pry."

"Yep," Alice says, without shame.

"Frequently," Sally says. She looks a little hesitant. "You must understand that Greg, well, primarily with men-"

"He likes the rough stuff," Alice says.

"I'm okay with that," Alex says, too quickly.

"Then you will get on famously," Sally says. "Whatever you do, don't let him think that you're afraid of him. He likes it when people are threatened by him, but not if he wants to sleep with them."

Alex has never been afraid of Greg for a moment; he wants to be, but not in the way that's being described here. He wants Greg on top of him, his very body threatening, the size of him intimidating all on its own. He wants Greg to tie him up and do awful things to him, make him take more than he can handle.

But he's making Greg into something to be afraid of. So far, he's not afraid of his creation at all.

"I think you can manage it," Alice says approvingly. 

"I hope so," Alex says, which is more than he should say, but it'll all be fairly obvious if things go to plan.

He is released from Alice and Sally's clutches and goes to the bar, collecting a fresh drink for the Taskmaster and carrying it to the back. There are ideas in his head, pinging around each other, but for right now he just makes his delivery.

"What the hell took you so long?" the Taskmaster says, taking the glass.

Alex considers and rejects a half a dozen things to say. "Sally and Alice wanted a word with me, sir."

"Oh," the Taskmaster says, drawing it out. He looks Alex up and down. "What sort of a word?"

There's a possessive quality to his manner, his voice, like there's an answer he'd like and an answer he wouldn't like. Alex isn't sure he's figured out yet that _that_ kind of a word is ultimately uninteresting to him. But this is what he's going for, building towards, a sense that Greg, that the Taskmaster thinks of Alex as something he possesses.

"They wanted to give me advice, sir," Alex says.

The Taskmaster raises an eyebrow. "Allow me to make a prediction," he says. "It was bizarre and completely unsolicited, but strangely helpful."

"I suspect you're completely right on that one, sir," Alex says.

"That'll be a nice change," the Taskmaster says. "Right. What's on the docket for tonight?"

"I'll run it down for you, shall I?" Alex says, opening his notebook.

"That is literally what I just said," the Taskmaster says, and Alex begins to read it out.


End file.
